


The Query At The Heart of Things

by afteriwake



Series: Where Speech Ends [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-25
Updated: 2015-06-25
Packaged: 2018-04-06 04:03:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4207179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afteriwake/pseuds/afteriwake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An unexpected chat with Mycroft leads Sherlock to reconsider how he feels about Molly, and he decides to make a move by asking her the question in a song that she should know well via text. Molly, however, doesn't give him the answer he's expecting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Query At The Heart of Things

**Author's Note:**

  * For [horrorfangirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/horrorfangirl/gifts).



> So this fic is inspired by a specific track on a specific version of a Marina and the Diamonds album, and I'm not sure I got the track listing right (Wikipedia says track 15 but my download says track 16) so I'm deferring to Wikipedia. But the song he's quoting from is "Lonely Hearts Club" from her debut album. The question used to inspire this story came from the article "[10 Unexpectedly Fun Questions To Ask On A First Date](http://www.hellogiggles.com/questions-to-ask-on-a-first-date/)" by Lisa Lo Paro.

**Who in your family are you closest to?**

“You have more than friendly feelings towards Ms. Hooper.”

Sherlock scowled at his brother from where he was sitting. Mycroft had made himself comfortable in the chair Sherlock preferred, a tweak at his baby brother's nose perhaps, and had been waiting there for some time, apparently, as Sherlock slept. He'd run himself to the point of exhaustion trying to figure out just how a man who shot himself in the mouth could miraculously come back from the dead, as he had for the majority of his waking hours unless Lestrade or his brother had needed his expertise in some other matter. It had been months that he'd puzzled over this, snatching each clue Moriarty dangled in front of him and analyzing it over and over in his head but finding no new information. Waking up to find Mycroft waiting for him in his favorite chair was bad enough, but his brother had said nothing at all the entire time Sherlock had set up his coffee and nothing still in the ten minutes he'd been sitting across from him. And for him to speak now, and for the topic to end up being his supposed romantic feelings about Molly? Completely unacceptable. “I do not,” he said, crossing his arms.

“You do, or else you would have asked for your violin back by now,” Mycroft said. To most people it would appear that Mycroft wasn't paying attention to Sherlock; he had his newspaper in front of him and that seemed to have most of his attention. But Sherlock wasn't fooled. Sherlock knew how he operated. The majority of Mycroft's attention was devoted to him and him alone.

“She needed a better one if she was going to get anywhere in her lessons,” he said.

“So you are letting her keep an antique violin that is one of your most prized possessions, a violin you used all the money you inherited from our grandfather to buy when you were ten years old, so that she may continue to improve? Clearly, brother, that is a sign you care for her as far more than a friend.” Mycroft turned a page in his newspaper. “And that is not altogether a bad thing.”

The scowl dropped off Sherlock's face. Mycroft was saying if he fancied Molly it wouldn't be a bad thing? Where had the Mycroft “Caring Is A Disadvantage” Holmes he'd known since he was eleven gone to, and what was this creature in his place? He slowly got out of the chair, moving towards his brother and then walking around him. After he did two full circuits he stood in front of Mycroft, plucked the newspaper out of his grip and then tossed it aside. Mycroft looked up, mildly annoyed. “Who are you and what have you done with Mycroft Holmes?” Sherlock asked, crossing his arms over his chest and raising an eyebrow.

Mycroft sent a withering glare in Sherlock's direction. “I am not brainwashed, nor is this an elaborate ploy that I have been manipulated into. And I am not a pod person or a robot, if that's what you're implying,” Mycroft said. “I'm merely pointing out that Molly Hooper is not the worst person to feel an attachment towards.”

“Yes, but you're my brother, who has despised all connections that are romantic in nature since he was a teenager,” Sherlock said. “In fact, I think you've despised having any connection with _anyone_ since you were fifteen. That was at least the case by the time you went into university. You've believed it's best to be alone in the world for so long that I can't really remember a time when you've thought otherwise.”

“Well, I was mistaken,” he said.

Sherlock pondered that for a second and then realization dawned on him. “Oh. Oh, this is good. This is absolutely _brilliant,_ ” he said, a wide and not altogether wicked smile dawning on his face. “You've found someone you're feeling these 'more than friendly' feelings towards and since it's happened to _you_ it must be happening to _me_ as well.”

“That is not true,” Mycroft huffed, looking away.

That was a telltale sign right there that Sherlock was right. “Oh, but I _am_ right,” Sherlock said in a gloating tone. “Your posture and tone and the fact you won't maintain eye contact say it quite clearly. You, Mycroft Holmes, are actually in love with someone.”

Mycroft got out of Sherlock's chair and stood in front of his brother. He was just a tiny bit taller than Sherlock, and he used that height difference to his advantage, glaring down at his brother. “You may believe me or you may not, Sherlock, but I do not fancy anyone. I do, however, feel that I have been wrong when I have insisted that caring for someone will leave you at a disadvantage. And since it is quite obvious you care for Ms. Hooper more than your other friends, I felt I should tell you that if you were to act on those feelings then it might be a good thing. But clearly I was mistaken that you would see a change in my mindset for exactly what it was: admitting I had made a mistake.”

A small scowl came on Sherlock's lips. “While Molly is a good friend you are reading too much into the situation. I do not fancy her. And even if I did, I highly doubt she would return feelings of affection towards me, seeing as how I am the reason her engagement ended all those months ago. She vehemently denied feeling anything like that towards me to her then fiancé, and I doubt much has changed since then.”

“Did you ever think Tom might actually have been much more observant than he let on, at least when it came to the type of relationship you have with Molly?” Mycroft asked.

“The man was an imbecile,” Sherlock spat out.

“He must have had _some_ similarities to you other than sense of style,” Mycroft said urbanely. “After all, Ms. Hooper seems to be attracted to men of intelligence. Even Moriarty, under his guise as Jim from IT, came off as intelligent. She would not fall for a profoundly stupid man, nor would she continue so far into a relationship as to consent to marry him if he didn't have a rather high level of intelligence.”

“All right,” Sherlock conceded after a few seconds thought. “Admittedly he may have had _some_ intelligence, but not enough. If he'd been smarter he wouldn't have let some foolish fantasy scenario sour his relationship with her,” Sherlock said.

“Or maybe he saw to the heart of the matter,” Mycroft replied.

“And just what would that be?” Sherlock asked.

“If Ms. Hooper was forced to choose between the two of you she would, without hesitation, choose you every time. While you were gone Tom felt he had her complete love and devotion, even though he knew she cared for you in a small way still, and most likely always would. But when you returned, he saw that the portion of her that cared for you could one day eclipse the part that cared for him, given the right motivating factor.”

“She wouldn't purposefully hurt a person like that,” Sherlock said, shaking his head. “That is not the type of person she is. She'd rather suffer in silence than hurt someone in that way.”

“But she didn't,” Mycroft pointed out. “She ended the engagement. So even she had to see there was potential for Tom's fantasy scenario, as you called it, to occur.”

“Or maybe she didn't want to be with someone who accused her of being infatuated with someone she only saw as a friend,” Sherlock countered. “I know _I_ certainly wouldn't want to remain in a romantic relationship with someone who thinks I would step out on them with someone else. It's an insult to say that they know I would prefer to be with someone else over them, that I'm simply settling.”

There was a pause. “Perhaps,” Mycroft said, conceding Sherlock's point. He felt a small sense of vindication at that. “You know her better than I do.”

“Yes, I do,” Sherlock said with a nod.

“And that's why I think if you were to form a romantic attachment to her it would be less likely to blow up in your face than one to _her_ or that woman you used to get close to Magnussen.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Irene intrigued me, it's true, but there was no feelings of attraction. And as for Janine, that was all an act, and it blew up in my face regardless.”

“Yes, thanks to Mary's involvement,” Mycroft said. “But if it hadn't you would have taken the ruse as far as you needed, up to and including marrying her, would you not?”

“Possibly,” he said. “If I'd done what I'd planned on doing originally there would have been no need.”

“If you'd done what you'd originally intended to do, dear brother, you would have ended up on that plane leaving the country much earlier, and I sincerely doubt Moriarty's reappearance would have saved you from that fate,” Mycroft said. “The point is, it would have ended badly if you had continued with the charade. If you begin a legitimate relationship with Ms. Hooper and do not treat it lightly, I believe it will end well enough.”

Sherlock was quiet for a moment. “Why are you so keen on me being in a romantic relationship?” he asked, narrowing his eyes at his brother.

“Because while I am resigned to a lonely life devoted to Queen and country, you do not need to share the same fate,” Mycroft said quietly. “There are people who care about you, who want you to be happy. You have people who love you. And you deserve a better life.”

Sherlock stared at him slightly. “You aren't _dying_ , are you, Mycroft?”

Mycroft got an exasperated look on his face and shook his head. “No, Sherlock, I am perfectly healthy and my lifespan is looking to be quite lengthy unless it ends due to unnatural causes. But I am getting older and reflecting on my life. It happens.”

“Ah. A midlife crisis, then,” Sherlock said with a nod. “That explains it.”

Mycroft scowled and shook his head. “I see this was a mistake,” he said, stepping away from his brother. He stooped over and picked up his newspaper from the spot on the floor where it had landed, and then straightened up and began to smooth it out to fold it up again. “You are going to continue to live the way you always have, keeping everyone at varying degrees of arm’s length, and then the day will come when you're on your deathbed and you'll be all alone and you'll regret you didn't heed my advice.”

“Mycroft, honestly, do you think either of us are suited towards romantic relationships? Don't you think we're damaged beyond repair?” Sherlock asked, his tone no longer challenging. He wasn't wanting to continue to argue with his brother, he realized; he wanted an honest answer, to see if Mycroft thought either of them actually deserved to be loved.

Mycroft stopped smoothing the paper, but he didn't look up at Sherlock. “We are different than Mummy and Father,” he said. “We ended up becoming people who push others away rather than pull them close. I have my own reasons for doing so, and I have been this way for so long now its set in my bones, but you weren't always this way. You used to be warm and loving and open, a long time ago. You may have blocked those memories out but I remember them. I think, given the right person and sufficient motivation, you could go back to being that way. You've already made significant strides in the last few years, especially since your forced absence from those who care about you.”

“I see,” Sherlock said as he nodded slowly, and after a few moments Mycroft folded his paper and then picked up his umbrella, which had been leaning against the chair. “I suppose I'll at least entertain the notion, however briefly.”

“Do more than just briefly entertain it, Sherlock,” Mycroft replied. “Give it some real thought.” He gave his brother the barest of nods and made his way out to the front door, opening it and then closing it behind him.

Sherlock picked his cup of coffee off the table where he had set it and took it to his chair, sinking down in it. Whatever his real motivations were, whether it was because he was in love with someone himself or he felt old age was slowly creeping up on him, Mycroft had given it thought. He genuinely thought Sherlock could change enough to be a loving partner to someone else in a romantic relationship. His brother obviously had more faith in that idea than he did, though he could admit he'd played the part well enough to fool Janine, so there was that. But there was a difference between playacting and actually committing to another person and meaning it.

Molly was on the very short list of women he fully and completely trusted. Mrs. Hudson was another, but obviously in this particular situation she didn't count. He didn't trust Irene farther than he could throw her, and while he did trust Janine a bit he would lie to her all over again without hesitation if he had good enough reason. And Mary was an entirely different matter, but including her in this was a moot point since she was quite happy in her relationship with John. But he respected Molly enough not to lie to her, not to use her in a way that would end up hurting her, and that made her different, because in all fairness he would lie to and manipulate anyone else if he needed to. Molly was...special. And now he was wondering why.

He thought about it for a few minutes, going through their history together. From the first meeting she'd treated him with kindness and respect, and a healthy dose of awe up until the Christmas party. She accepted he had to do things that would make him come off as abnormal and gave him mostly free reign when he was in her domain. She gave him priority over the Detective Inspectors in giving him results of autopsies. And even after countless rejections and what had to have been numerous episodes of hurt feelings, she still put her career and her own life on the line to help him pull of the disappearing act of the century. She could very well have been killed for her part in the deception if Moriarty had figured out she'd helped him pull it off and yet she did it anyway, and without the slightest hint of hesitation at that. And she had been there for him in the days before he left, giving him some much needed peace and even more than that, giving him hope that he would succeed.

He'd expected things to go back to how they had been, or maybe to be better than they had been, but that was before he realized Tom had some considerable say in her life. He scowled slightly as he thought of the man and that gave him pause. Tom wasn't in the picture anymore; Molly had chosen being alone again over marrying him. There was very little chance Tom would be welcomed back into her life, and even less chance he would want to make the attempt. So why was the thought enough to set his teeth on edge? He wasn't a part of Molly's life anymore.

But he _had_ been, Sherlock realized. He had been because Molly had chosen him. Molly had chosen Tom despite knowing the person she had used to fancy was still alive when the world thought him dead. Admittedly she didn't know exactly how he was doing, because it wasn't as though Mycroft was giving her updates, but _surely_ she must have realized if the worst had happened she would have been told. So as long as Mycroft wasn't waiting for her to deliver the bad news she had to have known he was still alive. And yet she had moved on, chosen someone who wasn't him and set about making a life with him. And that was it, he realized in a flash of insight. He wasn't upset with Tom. It could have been any Tom, Dick or Harry and he would have hated them just as much because she had chosen _them_ over _him_. 

The thought floored him. Had he wanted her to choose him all along? Had he wanted her to try harder to catch his attention after the party but before his life went to hell? Perhaps, he admitted to himself. He certainly would have paid her more attention. She could have swayed him. And then she would have had reason to wait for him to return. She would have had a tangible sign that he cared about her beyond knowing she counted. Then Tom wouldn't even have been in the picture. But the real question was did he want that scenario because he truly cared about her that way, or because he simply wanted all of her attention, the way he had wanted all of John's attention?

He considered picking up his violin and losing himself in playing for hours on end, but that would mean he would be concentrating on the music as opposed to trying to figure out how he really felt and what to do next. Meaningless noise would be best, though he didn't think he could handle the telly at the moment because if he picked a minutely interesting program he would get sucked into it. After a moment's hesitation, he went to the drawer of his desk and pulled out the bright pink object. He had taken nothing of importance with him while he was gone except that. Before his brother had smuggled him out of Serbia he made him retrieve it from the safe place he'd left it in Russia because he'd be damned if it wasn't coming back to England with him. When he'd needed to feel a connection to those he had left behind he would plug in a set of headphones and listen to whatever song Molly's iPod decided to give him. Sometimes it fit the occasion, but most times it did not, but as time went on he learned the words, the melodies, and burned all of them into his head. They were not things he would openly admit he had memorized, but he knew each word of each song as if they were tattooed on his brain. When he got particularly lonely or overwhelmed upon returning he'd repeat the actions which had gotten him through his exile, and this was going to be another one of those occasions, he realized. He unwrapped the cord of the headphones from around the iPod and then plugged them in before going back to his seat. He didn't particularly care which song played, because he wanted to think. He turned it on and pressed the button to start playing music as he sat back down, shutting his eyes.

He had no idea how long he had been ruminating on things, getting closer and closer to the conclusion that he did, in fact, fancy Molly, when a song of note came on. His eyes opened as the distinctive opening began, and he actually listened to it as opposed to relegating it to noise like he had many of the other songs that had played since he began listening today. He'd heard it a million times, it seemed, the vibrant pop song with the relatively sad lyrics. Of course, with the title it had it was expected it wasn't going to be a very romantic and uplifting song. After all, anyone who would consider joining a lonely hearts club was alone. But there was a tinge of hope throughout it, that maybe someone could find someone else and stop being lonely. Most importantly, however, it asked a question, a question Sherlock realized he wanted an answer to. 

He yanked the headphones out of his ears and then softly tossed the iPod onto the table before springing up out of his chair to get his mobile from his bedroom. The minute it was in his hands he began to text as he walked. _Marina and the Diamonds. Electra Heart, US Extended Edition. Track 15. The question in the chorus. Do you? SH_ He sent the text and then went back to the sitting room, flopping back into the chair and drumming his fingertips on the arms as he waited for a response.

After what seemed to be forever but was only ten minutes later, he got a reply. _When did you start listening to Marina and the Diamonds?_

He replied instantly. _Not important. Do you? SH_

There was another pause, though not as long. _I don't know what song that is. I wasn't able to get that version again when I had to replace my iPod._

He gave an exasperated sigh, not that she saw or heard it. _Lonely Hearts Club. Now answer me. Please. Do you? SH_

There was a lengthier pause than the last. _Sherlock, are you asking me to go out on a date with you?_

His reply was much shorter this time. _Obviously. SH_

He got a reply in two minutes. _Only if you actually ask. You can quote the lyrics if you need to, but I want you to ask properly. And I mean by phone, not text._

His eyes widened slightly. He actually had to ask? He had to say the words out loud when she had already said she would? Of all the... He glared at the message for a moment before pulling her up and hitting dial. She picked up on the second ring and he spoke without waiting for an answer. “I can recite the whole damn song. What part am I supposed to tell you before you say yes?”

She chuckled softly. “The chorus is fine. Or just the question, if you want.”

He shut his eyes and took a deep breath. “Do you want to be with somebody like me?”

“I think I would like that very much, Sherlock,” she said warmly.

“You _think_?” he asked, sounding slightly affronted.

“Well, I'm not sure exactly how much experience you have. _But_ , I'd like to find out. So I think think sounds very pragmatic on my end.”

“I was hoping for a gushing 'Absolutely' or something along those lines,” he said, grumbling slightly. 

“We'll see how the first date goes. You may get it when you ask me on a second one. Do you have plans tomorrow?”

“Just my plans every day: sort through the clues Moriarty is leaving behind. But I can spare a few hours in the evening for a meal.”

“Then dinner it is. And maybe a walk in one of the public gardens, if it's early enough?”

“Perhaps,” he said. “I'll see what's available and how early it's available. Do you have any preferences?”

“Thai?” she said.

“I'll see what I can do, then. I'll call you back with details.”

“Okay.” There was a slight pause. “Sherlock?”

“Yes?”

“I'm glad you finally asked.”

A small smile spread on his face. “Hopefully I won't disappoint you.”

“Oh, I don't think you will. I'll wait to hear back from you.”

“Very well then. I will call you soon.” He hung up then and looked at his phone for a moment. Maybe this would all be a mistake and blow up in his face, but at least he was going to make the attempt.


End file.
